


Leaving Home

by Luzula



Series: Leaving Home [1]
Category: due South
Genre: Backstory, Camping, Canada, Coming of Age, Gen, M/M, Podfic Available
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-10-07
Updated: 2008-10-07
Packaged: 2017-10-03 07:38:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,737
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15708
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Luzula/pseuds/Luzula
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The year that Benton turned eighteen, the highway finally reached Inuvik, and he followed it due south. Despite the pairing, the story is mostly gen.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Leaving Home

**Author's Note:**

> Huge thanks to my betas, Secretlybronte and Primroseburrows. They saved me from embarrassing mistakes and offered insightful comments that really helped me think about the story. Nos4a2no9 also gave me helpful advice.

The year that Benton turned eighteen, the highway finally reached Inuvik. It ran all the way down to Dawson City, and there was an inaugural ceremony, with talk of inevitable progress and impending prosperity. He and Eric stood at the edge of the crowd in the warm, dusty August afternoon and listened to the mayor make his speech. Eric had scoffed at the flowery words, and Benton was inclined to agree. It wasn't as if the oil money was staying there, after all--it was going south.

Benton was fascinated, though, as he watched the highway stretch off into the distance on its raised bed of gravel. He imagined it as a newly grown artery in a far-flung system of blood vessels, tying them into the circulatory system of Canada. New little roads would branch off from it to form capillaries to nearby villages, giving people access to the wider world.

But most of the traffic on the road was trucks, bringing supplies for the oil industry. Benton saw the oil workers in town sometimes, groups of raucous, hard-drinking men who walked on the street as if they owned it, which in a way they did. He knew that the oil industry was basically the reason for the town's existence, but still, he couldn't help resenting it.

Eric kicked at a rock as they walked down the main street after the ceremony. "This is our land; they don't have any right to do this."

He looked darkly at a truck rolling by, and Benton knew what he was thinking. "Well, I agree, but I still don't think sabotage is the right way to go."

"No? And what do you think is the right way?"

"Go to court."

Eric switched to Inuktitut, the better to swear. "Yeah? It'd take forever, and all we'd get would be a fucking piece of paper, even if we did win."

"I think you're underestimating the legal system--I mean, the land claims process will really make a difference."

"You trust the system too much, Ben. What's to stop them from ruining the land while we sit around and talk?"

***

Summer turned into fall, and the highway closed during the autumn, to allow ice bridges to form at the river crossings. It opened again in winter, white on white in the snow, with nothing to mark it as separate from the land except its shape, raised above the permafrost of the tundra by a solid bed of gravel, and the occasional traffic that crept along it.

Benton's home schooling continued. They'd always travelled around a lot, so it was easier for his grandparents to give him lessons than for him to change classes all the time, and after all, they had all the books they needed at their disposal. He'd attended school in Inuvik, Aklavik or Tuk sometimes, but it always felt awkward--he never had time to get to know his classmates, and he would know most of what the others his age were learning anyway.

When his father and Buck came by to visit that winter, Benton both dreaded it and longed for it. He wanted to tell his father something, but somehow he couldn't--there just wasn't any space there. Every time he came home, it was the same, as if they were following a script that had no room for improvisation.

"Hello, Benton," his father would say, clapping him on the back. "How are you doing?"

"Fine, dad," he would reply, as he was expected to, and then his dad would go back out to unharness the dogs.

Buck would smile and joke that he got taller every time they stopped by, which wasn't true any more--Benton was eighteen now, and full grown. Although at least he'd stopped ruffling Benton's hair.

They would all have dinner together: Buck, his grandparents, his father and him. There was just enough room for all of them around the small kitchen table, and Benton would sit on a stool at the end. Buck and his father would tell stories about the adventures they'd had on their latest patrols, long winding stories that both fascinated Benton and made him slightly resentful.

"And it turned out that the Soviet spy was posing as a fur trapper in Paulatuk," his father finished the latest story.

Buck laughed appreciatively, adding: "Didn't know what hit him, when you came after him with that frozen beaver."

Benton didn't know what it was, exactly--perhaps it was their easy camaraderie, which left him feeling as if he was on the wrong side of a windowpane, looking in. Benton rehearsed the words in his mind: _Dad, I've decided to go to Depot._ Or _Dad, I want to join the RCMP._ He didn't know how to say them.

In his imagination, Buck and his father would just go on talking, telling stories as if he hadn't said anything. As if he weren't there at all.

***

Benton let out the breath he'd been holding. He'd said it, finally. Not to his father--he had left two weeks ago--but to his grandparents. He had kept it to himself for so long that the words felt strange in his mouth when he said them aloud, as if they were a magic spell that made his thoughts part of the real world. Benton nervously twisted his fingers in his flannel shirt below the table, and kept his back straight.

"I just think you could do better for yourself." His grandmother frowned, folding her hands on the dinner table.

"What do you mean? How is becoming a member of the RCMP not good enough?"

"We just thought it was a phase that you'd grow out of," his grandfather said.

And yes, Benton could remember--how when he was a child, he'd drawn pictures of his father in his red uniform and told his grandparents he wanted to be a Mountie like his father. But it wasn't just because of his father; that wasn't his only reason, or any reason at all, really.

Benton pressed his lips together stubbornly. "It's not a phase. I'm eighteen years old now. I'm old enough to decide for myself."

"Well, of course it's your choice. I just thought--" his grandmother hesitated, then continued slowly. "You have something special, Benton. I've never taught someone so...talented and quick to learn. If you went to university, you could go far."

Benton stared at her, then looked down at his empty plate, where the knife and fork lay neatly together. He didn't know what to reply. He knew that he was good at his lessons compared to others, but for his grandmother to say that he…She had never told him anything like that before. Neither of them had.

"Do you mean that?" he blurted out. Something in him wanted more, soaked it up like water on dry ground.

She nodded. "Yes. Do you really think you'll be satisfied in the RCMP? I think you'll want more, to learn more than you ever will being a policeman."

"But that isn't all of me," he objected. "I mean, I…"

Benton didn't know how to tell them what he meant. No matter how naïve it sounded, he wanted to do some good in the world, to fight for what he believed in. And if he went to university in a big city, he was sure he'd feel hemmed in. He didn't think he could stand not being able to stand on the runners of a sled, with the wind in his face and his whole body focused on the dogs running before him.

"I want to do this," he said firmly.

His grandparents exchanged a wordless look, the way they did when they were deciding something, and then his grandfather said, "Very well. Caroline left you some money. It's stated in her will that she wanted it to help pay for your education. I don't know if it will be enough, but we'll see. Though I do think you should consider this more carefully first."

Benton swallowed against the sudden lump in his throat. He'd thought of the money issue, of course, and tried to calculate how long he'd have to work before he could go to Depot. But his mother had planned for this, even when he was still just a child.

"Thank you," he said in a choked voice, and got up to take his plate to the sink.

***

"You're going to be a _Mountie_?" Benton had often seen Eric angry, but it wasn't often directed at him.

"That's what I told you, didn't I?" Benton lifted his chin defiantly.

"You know what they did to us! How can you even consider it?"

Privately, Benton thought that an angry Eric was a magnificent sight, all that energy and beauty focused on one unfortunate target.

"The RCMP isn't all bad! It's flawed, yes, but that's why we have to change it. And I want to do that from the inside."

"The RCMP isn't flawed, it's rotten! What are you going to do when they order you to move a tribe to make way for more developments?" Eric's eyes were sharp and black gazing out from inside the hood of his heavy parka.

"It's still possible to work around it. When my father was ordered to relocate a village on Ellesmere Island, he fabricated a new village and let them stay where they wanted. If he had been someone like Corporal Ellis, what do you think would've happened?" Benton had heard the story from Buck, when they'd stopped by for a few days last fall.

"Oh, it's about your father, is it? I should've known." This wasn't fair, and Benton finally raised his voice. "It is _not_ about my father! That's not fair! Do I drag your father into discussions?"

"Well, you're the one who brought him up."

Benton couldn't deny this, of course, and he tried to backtrack. "It was only an example. Do you want the RCMP to consist of old racists, or men who actually care about the people who live here?"

"You think it's that easy? It'll wear you down, Ben, until you're just another Mountie obeying orders." He shook his head.

But the heat of Eric's anger had left him now, and he leaned on a tree by the riverbank, tugging Ben close beside him. This was their special place, secluded by willows that would grow leaves like small green mouse ears when spring came. Ice still shackled the river, waiting patiently for the snow melt when it would swell and overflow its banks. Eric put his arm around Benton in tacit apology, squeezing his shoulders briefly.

"I know it won't be easy. But I want to do this." Benton could admit Eric's point now that he had calmed down.

He had studied ethics as a theoretical subject, had pored over Kant and Spinoza under his grandparents tutelage, but in real life, things were more...tangled. He would simply have to do the best he could.

Eric laughed. "Well, it's not like anyone could change your mind about anything if you didn't want to. I wish you luck, I really do."

"Thanks." He took Eric's hand, feeling the press of his fingers through their two pairs of gloves. But he couldn't let the topic go. "If not through the law, then how do you think we can have justice? I mean, if everyone used brute force to solve conflicts, we'd be at war all the time."

Eric shook his head. "Why can't you see that the law is just a tool for the rich and powerful? It's not like they're going to listen to us unless we make them."

***

Benton had kept the information papers from the RCMP for months in an envelope under his mattress, and he knew the application procedures by heart. A physical test, a written test, a medical examination, all to be done in Yellowknife, the regional capital. This would be followed by an investigation into his background and an interview by a member of the RCMP. If he passed, he'd be summoned to Depot.

His hands tightened on the armrests as the plane surged forward, pressing him back into the seat. Benton closed his eyes at the exhilarating power of it, and then looked through the window to see the ground dropping away. Never having flown on a plane before, he pressed his nose against the glass with interest and saw the artificial lights and orderly square shapes of Inuvik, shrinking rapidly into the surrounding dim white.

When he'd gotten off the plane onto the tarmac of the Yellowknife airport, he hesitated, wondering where to go. There was a bored-looking man in a uniform, perhaps some kind of guard, and Benton turned to him in relief.

"Excuse me? Do you know where I can find the local RCMP detachment?" he asked.

"It's in the center of town."

"Do you know how I can get there?"

"Well, you could take a taxi, I suppose."

A taxi? How much did that cost? The plane ticket was expensive enough. "Are you sure I can't walk? How far is it?"

"Three miles or so, I think. Town's that way, anyway." He jerked his thumb to the right. Benton shouldered his pack and started to walk. There should be time--his appointment wasn't until twelve o'clock.

The wind off the lake was icy, but he was used to that, and the lake didn't look much different from the tundra, frozen as it was. The trees looked different, though, sturdier and not as thin, as if they grew with more confidence further south. Benton trudged along beside the road as trucks thundered by.

Benton found Yellowknife to be overwhelming, despite the knowledge that it was actually a fairly small town compared to the cities further south. It looked functional and not precisely ugly--more indifferent to beauty--and it seemed to have grown haphazardly, not a planned community the way Inuvik was. But the largest difference was the people. Benton felt as if he was shrinking into himself at their indifferent glances, and it struck him with sudden force that no one knew him here. No one would gossip to his neighbors if he misbehaved, no one would care if he vanished without a trace. He shivered, and felt relief when he finally found his way to the RCMP detachment.

There were a few other people there to take the tests, mostly young men, like him, but also a young woman with short blonde hair. He nodded at them, and they nodded back, probably preoccupied or nervous.

Benton wasn't used to time-limited tests with many small problems, like these. He'd mostly been home-schooled, and his grandparents gave him Chinese translations to do, or open-ended math problems, or sat down and discussed the reasons behind the fall of the Roman Empire with him. So he was surprised at how well his mind instinctively sorted the difficulty of the problems and kept track of the time left. In fact, he was good at this. He finished the tests with rising confidence.

After the last test, which was math, the boy next to him leaned back in his chair and sighed. "God, I hate math. I hope I didn't flunk it."

"I'm sure you did fine," Benton replied.

"But it was so _hard_. Didn't you think so?"

Benton had in fact found the problems to be trivial, but he could hardly say so. He smiled noncommittally and packed up his things. The boy moved on to a small group of other people discussing the tests.

After eating the sandwiches he'd brought for lunch, a physician checked his reflexes, listened to his heart, took blood tests, tested his eyesight and hearing and many other things. Benton followed the proceedings with interest. When he was younger, he'd sat for hours reading the medical encyclopedia in the library.

"Well, you seem healthy enough," the doctor finally announced. "Although we'll have to wait for the blood test results to be sure, of course."

"What are you testing for?" Benton asked curiously.

"Various blood-borne diseases such as hepatitis." The doctor looked at him, frowning. "Why?"

"Oh, I'm just curious."

He was pretty sure he did all right on the physical test, as well. It left him panting from the hard exercise, but it seemed that he'd passed.

Benton spent the night at a cheap hotel, and walked back toward the airport the next day. Away from the residential areas and government buildings, the real business of the town was obvious. He could see the silhouettes of the buildings around the mines, where the rocky ground was piled up as if the earth had thrown up its guts. There was a smell in the air--arsenic, perhaps? He remembered it from one of his chemistry lessons.

Benton got on the plane with the unreal feeling of a week having passed, despite the fact that it had only been a day and a night.

***

Back in Inuvik, the days were lengthening. It was March now, and the brilliance of sun on snow for a whole hour every day felt like a gift, a long awaited blessing.

"Are you done with those crates?" his grandmother asked.

Benton checked the ropes on the cargo sled one more time. "Yeah, they're secure," he called back.

They were going to Aklavik on a library trip, leaving most of the books behind and only bringing those that had been requested, along with especially popular books and ones that were useful as references. And of course some that they liked and hoped to get people to read.

"Right, let's go, then," his grandfather called.

Benton jumped up in front of one of the crates and the heavy snowmobile rumbled to life. He pulled a caribou skin up over his legs and settled down for the ride. They followed the ice-covered Mackenzie at first, and the noise and exhaust fumes from the engine contrasted with the sparkling white of the world. Benton wished for the silent swiftness of travelling by dogsled, but a load this heavy would've needed about twelve dogs. He sometimes borrowed Quinn's team, but they were only seven dogs. And his father's team, of course, wasn't there.

If he could return north after Depot, he would get a team of his own. One of Eric's cousin's dogs had a litter of puppies that was almost grown now, and there was one in particular that he'd been looking at. She seemed obedient and would probably make a good lead dog. Strong runner, too, and she had the loveliest reddish shading on her head...

A bump woke him from his daydream. They'd gone up the bank from the river, and the trail wasn't as smooth. He held on and paid attention.

When they finally reached Aklavik, the drone of the engine felt like a thrumming deep in his bones. Benton was stiff and sore, and he stretched his legs gratefully.

"I'll come get you in a week, then," said Scott Riley, after he'd helped them unload the heavy crates and carry them inside. He drove off, leaving them with silence ringing in their ears.

"Well, I'll go to the general store and tell them we're here, if you'll start putting things in order." His grandmother put her snowshoes on and disappeared into the gloom of late afternoon.

They usually borrowed a cabin that had stood empty since Mary Pitseolak had moved south with her husband, and the books were put up in one of the two rooms. Benton hung up a sign on the door that read "Northwest Travelling Library. Opening hours: 10-6."

Someone had been by to start a fire for them, but it hadn't been enough to drive out the cold completely. They kept their heavy sweaters on as they sat down to a dinner of canned soup and sandwiches.

That night, Benton lay shivering in a nest of blankets that were still chilly and damp. He was reading Milton by the light of a candle on the windowsill, the small print almost blurring together in the dim light. Finally he put the book down, pulled his cap down over his ears, and curled up. Briefly, he wished Eric were there to share body heat with him, his long limbs wrapping around him, lips and breath warm on his neck. The thought seemed out of place with his grandparents sleeping across the room. He was fairly sure they knew about him and Eric, but they'd never said anything and neither had he.

Well, not explicitly, at any rate.

He did remember one day last summer when he was almost done with his studies for the day and was trying not to squirm impatiently, waiting for the moment when he could run down to the river to meet Eric.

His grandmother had let him out early, saying: "Tell Eric to return that overdue book, would you?"

Benton had blushed, deep and red. She had smiled, and it had felt like a benediction. He had fled, feeling as overwhelmingly happy as the rare times when she praised his schoolwork.

***

Over the next few days, people stopped by to borrow new books and return old ones. They took turns minding the library and managing the meticulously organized card system to keep track of the loans. One afternoon, Benton was minding the library while his grandmother was helping out as a teacher at the local school and his grandfather was outside chopping wood. The muffled sounds of the axe came far between, and Benton wished he'd thought to chop the wood himself last night. His grandfather's arthritis was getting worse, but to go out now and offer to take over would only embarrass him.

There was a knock on the door, and June came in.

"Ben!" she said brightly, giving him a hug. Not even her bulky sealskin parka could hide her obvious pregnancy. She was two years older than him and Innusiq, and she'd always been the responsible older sister. Or the bossy one, as Innusiq had put it.

"Hi, June!" He didn't quite know what to say. It was as if she had entered some mysterious adult sphere of life that felt very far away to him. He wondered if he would ever have children. Probably not--the life of a law enforcement officer didn't seem to leave much room for family.

"Congratulations," he said awkwardly.

"Thank you." She beamed at him and smoothed one hand over her belly, emphasizing the swell of it. "Innusiq says hi."

"Tell him I said hello." June nodded and returned her book.

He and Innusiq had been inseparable when they were eight or so, but had drifted apart later when Innusiq wasn't that interested in discussing books and Benton wasn't that interested in looking at girls. They'd moved the main library to Inuvik when Benton was thirteen, anyway, and he had eventually discovered the point of looking at girls, although he found he was far more interested in looking at boys.

Not that it usually did him much good--he remembered the sweet frustration of wrestling with Mark, his hands all over Benton's body, but not the way he wanted them.

Not that he'd really known what he wanted then, anyway.

***

They went back to Inuvik, and the days grew ever lighter, gathering momentum for the coming spring. Benton tried not to dwell too much on his application results, with little success. He was pretty sure he'd done well on the tests, but there were other parts of the application process, as well.

One day, he was called to an interview with Sergeant Collins, a middle-aged man with a chest like a barrel and a bushy mustache that tended to grow small icicles in the winter. Benton had always wondered why he kept it.

In his office, Sergeant Collins stroked his mustache and rumbled, "Bob Fraser's son, eh? Well, the apple doesn't land far from the tree, isn't that what they say?" He winked at Benton.

"I suppose so, sir," Benton replied, at his most polite.

"Oh, lighten up, son. You look like you're going to your execution."

Benton tried to smile.

The questions seemed to be from a set list, and he answered them as best he could, with his gaze trained on Sergeant Collins. Most questions seemed easy, though some were surprising. Regardless, he was sworn to secrecy at the end. Benton was disappointed--he'd have liked to have told Eric about the questions.

"You'll be all right, son." Sergeant Collins clapped him on the back with a heavy hand. The interview was over.

***

One day in early June, soon after the ice broke on the Mackenzie, there was a slim letter for him with the RCMP logo. He slipped it into his pocket before anyone else had seen it, and went into his room. Benton almost couldn't bring himself to read it, balancing between anticipation and apprehension in a way that made his stomach churn, but finally he took a deep breath and cut the envelope open with his knife, pulling out a single piece of paper.

_Benton Fraser,_

_The RCMP is pleased to inform you that your application has been successful. You should report to Depot in Regina on October 1st, 1980._

There was more, but he could only sit down on his cot, stunned by relief and by getting what he wanted.

The money from his mother had turned out not to be enough, and his grandparents had little to spare. Running a travelling library wasn't particularly lucrative, and his grandfather had had to quit his extra job some time ago, on account of his arthritis. Reading in his room one evening, Benton heard his grandparents talking over their evening cup of tea.

"I wonder when Robert will be home--didn't he say he'd stop by in the spring?"

"He'll come when it pleases him to do so." His grandmother's voice was dry.

"I really do think he could contribute some money toward Benton's education. Did that never occur to him?" The disapproval was clear in his grandfather's voice.

Benton hid his face in the pillow and wished sound didn't carry so well through the door. He would not beg his father for money--the very thought made him feel ashamed. Over the last few years, Benton had worked extra, to help make up for the loss of his grandfather's income. It wasn't enough to make much money for himself, though, since his grandparents insisted he couldn't neglect his schooling, and he also helped out in the library.

But he could earn money on his own. They would see.

When he asked Quinn for advice the next day, Quinn rubbed his chin thoughtfully. "Well, the oil rigs employ a lot of people around here, of course. But I'm not sure you'd want to work there."

He looked at Benton with piercing black eyes, and as always, Benton felt as though they looked right through him.

"No, I wouldn't," he said firmly.

"Well, not much else work around here now, not that you could get full-time. Maybe if you went south a ways? There's mining, of course. And I have a friend who says there's always work in the logging business. He could help you, I think."

"What's his name?" Benton asked.

"Tom Bevan. Lives a bit inland from Prince Rupert, in British Columbia."

Benton braced himself. "Aren't you going to try to convince me not to be a Mountie?"

Quinn smiled, the lines around his mouth deepening. "You make your own choices, Ben. Always have, always will. And you'll be all right."

"Thanks, Quinn," Benton said sincerely.

He hadn't thought about leaving to earn money elsewhere, but why not? He didn't have any real friends his own age here now, except for Eric. They'd moved back and forth between the small communities of the north over the years, and it hadn't been easy to keep in touch with any friends he made. Mark had been drafted by the Winnipeg Jets the year before last; he still sent postcards sometimes, bragging about the progress he'd made.

His grandparents would probably object to him leaving. They didn't really want him to go to Depot in the first place, and they'd probably think he should stay here. But it would take forever to get the money he needed that way, and Benton was impatient.

He would do this his own way, no matter what they thought. And he'd bring money back for them, too. He knew they needed it, even if they didn't often talk about it.

Benton went by Eric's family's place, and Eric's sister told him that he was fishing down by the river.

Benton approached quietly, trying not to alert Eric to his presence. This was an old game between them, from when they practised hunting and tracking together. Eric sat on the bank with his legs crossed, not turning around, while Benton came closer, one careful step at a time. Finally, Benton touched him on the shoulder, and Eric turned around and grinned at him, looking unsurprised. Benton was unsure whether this was because he'd heard Benton approach, or because he was good at controlling his reactions.

"Hi, Ben."

"I'm going south, to find work." Benton said with no preliminaries, and sat down beside Eric.

"Where?"

"Prince Rupert, in British Columbia." Eric raised his eyebrows; Benton knew that was close to where Eric's father's people lived, although Eric didn't have much contact with them.

"What kind of work is it?"

"Logging. Quinn has a friend there who works in the forest, and Quinn said he'd help me find a job."

"How long will you be gone?"

"A couple of months, I think. And you know I'm going to Depot in October?"

"Yeah, I know."

Benton felt he had to explain. "The thing is, I don't just need money for myself. My grandfather...he can't work all that well anymore, and they'll lose my income when I go to Depot. So I want to leave some money for them."

"It's okay, I get it."

"You've never thought about going down to the Tsimshian lands? To visit your father's people, I mean. You could come with me, when I go." Part of that question was a wish for Eric's company, Benton admitted to himself, but it was also honest curiosity.

"Well, I always thought I'd go down there, some day. But not this summer. I'll be apprenticed to David Tanuyak." He looked up quickly to meet Benton's eyes, as if he wanted to see his response.

"You will?" Benton repeated, surprised. The more the thought about it, though, the more it made sense. David Tanuyak was a respected storyteller. And Benton had always thought there was something more to him, too.

He squeezed Eric's hand. "That's...I'm really happy for you."

Eric squeezed back, smiling almost shyly. "Thanks. Sorry for not telling you before. I mean, I didn't know if he'd take me, and, well..."

"No, that's all right." It wasn't as if he himself had been forthcoming about his plans to go to Depot. But then, he'd known Eric would disagree with him about that.

They sat in silence for a while. Benton looked out over the water, sparkling in the sunlight, and felt Eric's presence, close by his side. He imagined Eric learning all the ancient stories of the land, and Benton felt a vague kind of melancholy come over him. He'd grown up in communities that were mostly Inuit, but no matter how well he spoke their language, he'd never be one of them.

Benton leaned against Eric's body, feeling the solidity and the softness, how the warmth of him contrasted with the chill rising from the water, and felt Eric leaning back into him.

Finally, he got up to leave, and Eric put aside his fishing rod and hugged him roughly.

"I'll miss you, Eric," Benton mumbled in Inuktitut into his neck.

"Me too, white boy," Eric whispered back. The way he usually said that phrase, it was teasing. This time, it was almost an endearment.

The next day, when his grandparents were working, Benton packed his small tent and bedroll; a cooking pot; a road map of Canada and a compass; fishing line and a hook; flint and steel; a knife and a small sharpening stone; a bag of pemmican; and some more supplies. He agonized over which books to take, if any. Books were heavy, but he didn't think he could do entirely without something to read. Finally, he took a volume of poetry by Robert Service and Wittgenstein's _Philosophical Investigations_, on the grounds that poetry and philosophy would last longer than fiction. They were his own books; he wouldn't risk the library's property. He wrapped them up carefully in a plastic bag to protect them.

Benton wrote a note, saying that he was leaving to find work further south, and that they shouldn't worry. He squashed down the slight feeling of guilt that asserted itself--they'd said it was his choice, hadn't they? He could do this on his own.

There was only one road, and it went due south.

Benton hitched a ride with a taciturn trucker, sitting beside him in the passenger seat with his backpack at his feet. He tried to turn and watch Inuvik disappear behind him, but the bulk of the truck blocked his view, so that he could only look forward. So he watched the land pass by through the windshield, feeling the distance grow behind him.

That night, he put his tent up and lay down on his bedroll, the thin fabric of the tent the only barrier between him and the endless land. The wind sang gently in the tent lines. He curled up, alone but not particularly lonely--he had everything he needed to survive on his own.

As he worked his way south, the land changed. Benton had never seen real mountains before, and he wanted to stray from the highway, to linger and explore. These mountains had never been glaciated, he realized, looking at the V-shaped valleys. The peaks were light in color, limestone perhaps, with blocky talus slopes spread beneath them like aprons. But he had a goal, and couldn't allow himself to be sidetracked.

He didn't have much of a problem getting rides, and the fair weather held out, for which he was thankful. When he got to Whitehorse, he didn't even go into town--it would only have delayed him. He just caught another ride at the truck stop outside of town, and saw the cluster of houses from a distance.

It was the second town that he had seen in his life, if he didn't count Inuvik.

The road went east--Johnson's Crossing, then Watson Lake--before it turned south again. The land was mountainous all the way now, an exotic contrast to the rolling hills of Inuvik and the coast around Tuk, flat as a pancake. In Dease Lake, he stopped to mail a postcard to his grandparents, telling them that he was all right.

The travelling wore on him, and he often half-dozed, staring at the white lines on the road as they disappeared in a quick, steady rhythm beneath whatever vehicle he was in at the moment.

When he got close to the coast, following the Skeena River down the Yellowhead Highway, the weather turned ugly. The wipers beat furiously across the windshield to keep the rain at bay. Through the blurred glass, Benton could see glimpses of green: lavish vegetation that looked as though it wanted to overflow the boundaries of the road.

Was this what he was here to cut down? All along the western coast of Canada there was temperate rainforest, he recalled from his geography lessons, watered by the moisture that precipitated when the air from the sea was forced upwards by the mountains. Rainforest--it sounded like some tropical, faraway dream.

Well, there certainly seemed to be enough rain.

***

Tom Bevan lived in a small community outside of Prince Rupert; it hadn't been difficult to find the right house by asking for directions. Benton stood in front of the door, hesitating. Before he could gather the courage to knock, the door opened.

The woman who opened it was maybe in her forties, with her black hair tied back. "Hello?"

Benton smiled and said, as politely as he could, "Good afternoon. I wonder if Tom Bevan is here?"

A child peeked at him from the window, pressing her nose against the glass in curiosity. "Yes, he's 'round the back."

"Thank you kindly." Benton went around the house to where a man stood chopping wood.

He put the axe down and wiped his brow when Benton approached. His hair was black and streaked with gray above his weathered face.

Nervously, Benton extended his hand. "Hello, I'm Benton Fraser. I'm a friend of Quinn's. He said you might be able to help me find work around here."

To his relief, the man nodded and shook Benton's hand firmly. "Tom Bevan. Yes, Quinn did tell me you'd be along. Shouldn't be a problem finding work in the forest for you, if you're not afraid of working hard."

"I can work, I promise." Tom took a closer look at him, and Benton straightened up.

Benton was acutely aware of his unwashed clothes.

"Did you run away from home, son?" Tom asked mildly.

Benton blushed and ducked his head down, which was as good as a confession, it seemed. He had never been much good at lying.

Tom shrugged. "That's your own business, I suppose. You're a grown man. Just--you're not in any serious trouble, are you?"

"No! I mean, I just want to earn money to pay for my education."

"Right, then. Do you have a place to stay?"

"I have a tent. And I can live off the land."

Tom raised his eyebrows, looking surprised. "Are you sure you want to live outdoors the whole summer? I'm sure we could find you a room somewhere in town. Or there's a barracks where some of the other workers are living."

Benton bristled a little. He knew how to live on his own. "No, I can do this."

"Well, if you say so. I can speak to the elders for you--see if they'll let you hunt here. They likely will, if I vouch for you."

"Thank you kindly. I really would be very grateful."

"Well, you're a friend of Quinn's. He saved my life once, when we were both young. You can come have dinner with us tonight, and we can see about work tomorrow."

***

So this was what a real forest was like. He'd known the trees would be higher here than the spruce trees around Inuvik, with their thin sloping branches. But that hadn't prepared him for the massive bulk of these trees, the way they shut the light out to make their own shady world where the young trees grew from the decomposing mulch of the fallen ones. It was old--this had been a forest since long before his ancestors even came to this land. But not, he thought, before Tom's people came here.

Benton stopped looking around and paid attention to the stocky man, apparently some kind of foreman, to whom Tom had introduced him.

"Sure, we can use more workers," he said, looking appraisingly at Benton. "Let's try you on for a week first, see if you can handle the work."

Benton wanted to protest that he could, but just nodded. "All right."

He was issued a large chainsaw, and the foreman waved one of the other workers over. "Would you show him the ropes, Hank?"

"Sure," the man said agreeably. He was tall, with blond hair that hung down into his eyes.

Benton spent the morning learning how to use a chainsaw.

"See, you've got to watch for kickback," Hank said, demonstrating against the trunk of a sitka spruce. "If you don't start the motor before putting the blade to the trunk, or if you angle it wrong, it'll kind of take hold of the trunk and get thrown upwards."

Benton followed the movements of his hands intently.

"Had a guy here last year, almost sliced his shoulder in half," Hank said conversationally. "Watch it, is all."

Benton resolved to do so--he'd like to keep his shoulder intact, thank you. "Anything else to be careful about?"

Hank shrugged. "You'll learn as you go along. Come on, you can watch us do it first, before you try it yourself."

***

Over the following days, Benton learned how to place the cuts to get a tree to fall a particular way. He learned how dangerous the moment just before the tree fell was, and to cry "Timber!" in warning before it crashed ponderously down, breaking branches and lesser trees on the way.

It was hard work, and at the end of each day he was tired and sweaty, his head buzzing with the sudden silence. Tom had found a pair of earmuffs for him, but he still found the constant noise wearying. He wondered why so few of the others used them.

Each night, he slept deeply, exhausted and craving more sleep than he got, what with both working and needing to hunt for food. He set traps to catch hares, and there was a stream running nearby where he could catch fish, but it took time, and he frequently went hungry.

Benton found the forest to be somewhat overwhelming at first. He was used to having his line of sight unobstructed and having nothing above him but the sky. This closed-in world made him slightly claustrophobic. But he learned to appreciate the details of it--the tall ferns growing around the brook, and the bright green lichen, as big as his hands, hanging in leafy abundance from the tree trunks.

He wished he'd brought some of the botany books from the library with him. Of course, the work didn't exactly leave him with much free time, so maybe it was just as well.

He'd set his tent up on the soft springy bed of needles beneath a stand of western hemlocks, _Tsuga heterophylla_. They were trees he'd never seen at home, with massive tall trunks, thriving on the moisture from the coast. The needles were green on the upper side and pale when he turned them over, and they were soft and didn't prick his hand when he stroked his hand over the branches.

Of course, he'd have to move when the logging came closer to his camp.

***

"Hey, watch out for that branch!" Matt shouted and waved.

"All right, I see it!" Benton stepped to the side as Hank and Matt cut off one of the large side branches of the fallen redcedar.

He enjoyed the teamwork of logging, and the other workers were good partners in that sense, although Benton didn't find it easy to talk with them otherwise. He'd mentioned the philosophy book he had with him to Matt, but Matt had just stared at him and shrugged. Benton had felt uncomfortable and he wished he hadn't said anything about it. And of course, they teased him sometimes about living in the woods, but mostly they ignored his pecularities. They had work to do, after all.

"Okay, that's the last one for today," Hank said, putting down his saw. "A bunch of us are going in to town tonight. Got our wages, so I figure we deserve a bit of fun, eh?"

"Oh?" Benton said carefully. He didn't want to spend his money, but he couldn't deny that he'd welcome the company.

"Come along if you like. You know, a few beers, maybe buy yourself a girl..." Hank grinned.

_Buy...?_ Benton stepped back, shocked.

"You can't buy a person," he said, hearing the coldness in his voice as if from the outside.

Hank stared at him in disbelief, his grin turning into an ugly sneer. "Oh yeah? Well, I can sure as hell buy myself a good fuck."

They turned their backs on him and joined the other men. Benton sat down on the trunk of a tree, feeling worn out and empty. He could hear their voices, laughing and joking, growing fainter with distance.

Slowly, he made his way back to his camp and took down the remains of a hare he'd cooked that morning. It was hanging in a tree, safe from bears. He ate, chewing slowly, the better to fill his stomach. Then he sat down on the ground and began to methodically sharpen his chainsaw with a file.

It was a time-consuming process that required concentration. Each tooth had to be sharpened separately, and then the blunt sections in between had to be filed down to just the right length. If you filed them down too far, the saw would cut too deeply into the wood and get stuck. If you didn't file them far enough, the saw would be too blunt.

When the light failed, he finally stopped. Benton ducked into his tent and lay down in the bedroll. It began to rain again, as it often did, falling onto the high canopy and then dripping down irregularly onto the fabric of his tent. Benton curled up tightly and tried not to cry.

He was lonely and homesick.

He missed Eric, and his grandparents, and Quinn. Most of all, he wanted someone to hold him. Even the wordless warmth of a sled dog would have been a comfort.

***

The next day he went back to work. There was no discernible difference in how the others treated him, but he still felt like a door had closed that he hadn't even been aware was open.

He didn't think he showed anything, but that afternoon Tom caught his arm before he could leave for the day. "How are you doing, son? Annie and I were just saying that we ought to have you over for dinner."

"I'm fine," Benton said automatically, searching Tom's face for a trace of condescension or pity. But he just smiled a little and said: "I'm sure you are. But she'll be cooking extra tonight, and it would be a pity to let it go to waste."

Benton thought longingly of a roof above his head and food on a plate. Eric would have teased him and called him a weakling for that, he was sure, but he gratefully said yes.

They drove there in Tom's old pick-up truck, mostly in silence, which Benton appreciated. After the incident yesterday, he felt oddly ashamed, although he in fact had nothing to be ashamed of, he told himself. One had to speak one's conscience, and if he'd broken some unspoken rule of the group, then so be it. This, apparently, was the price he'd have to pay.

Tom and Annie's house was warm, noisy with children, and full of heavenly smells. Benton felt almost dizzy with hunger, and tried to eat slowly, so they wouldn't think he had poor table manners.

"Thank you kindly for the food," he told Annie.

She smiled at him and insisted that he have some more, and Benton did.

At Tom and Annie's insistence, Benton sat down in the sofa while they cleaned up, so full that he wasn't sure he could move in the foreseeable future. A little girl sucking her thumb curled up next to him, looking sleepy. He looked down at her, feeling oddly tender at her trustfulness. She took her thumb out of her mouth.

"I'm May," she said, looking up at him expectantly.

"I'm Benton," he replied.

She nodded seriously. "It's past my bedtime, but Mom said I could be up because we have a guest."

"Oh," he said, not sure what to say.

"Can you sing me a lullaby?" she requested.

"I guess so," he said uncertainly. He looked up at Tom and Annie, perhaps for permission, but they seemed busy. Benton began to sing softly, a lullaby that June and Innusiq's mother used to sing. May wouldn't understand the words--her people's native language was Tsimshian, not Inuktitut, but she seemed to like it. Benton could feel her breathing slow as she fell asleep against him.

"You have a nice voice," Annie said as she sat down on the chair next to the sofa.

"Thank you," Benton said, blushing.

"I think it's time for this one to go to bed," she said, lifting the warm body from Benton's side. She handed May over to Tom, who disappeared into an inner room. "You know, I have an old guitar standing around. Do you play as well as sing?"

"Well, yes. I mean, a little. My grandmother taught me."

The guitar was out of tune, so Benton carefully adjusted the tuning keys, finding the E for the lowest string and then A for the next string, then D, G, B, and finally E again. He sang the lullaby again, tentatively finding the chords.

"Sorry. I'm not used to singing that one with the guitar. I'll do something else." He searched his memory for the old ballads he'd learned from the notebooks in the library and from his grandmother. Finally he settled on one and sang it quietly, so as not to wake the children.

"That's very nice," Annie said. "A friend gave me the guitar once, but I never learned to play it properly."

Tom came out of the other room and closed the door soundlessly. "Would you like a cup of tea?"

"Yes, thank you kindly." Benton put the guitar down carefully, leaning it against the side of the sofa.

Tom came over with the tea. "How are you doing with the job?"

"I'm doing fine," Benton replied, willing him not to ask more. He _was_ doing fine, really.

"All right," Tom said mildly, taking him at his word.

"Can I ask you something?" Benton said, surprising himself. He hadn't meant to say that.

"Of course."

"I'm sorry, I really don't mean to sound presumptuous. Don't you find it...isn't it hard for you to cut the forest down? I mean, it's your people's land." Benton bit his lip and looked down, hoping he hadn't offended Tom.

But when he glanced up, Tom merely looked thoughtful. "If you asked me twenty-five years ago, I would never have believed I'd be working this job. Things...change, when you get older. I don't much like doing it, but I have a family to feed now. And I want my children to be able to go to school."

"Oh. I see." He thought of Eric and his anger, and wondered what he'd be like in twenty-five years. He thought of himself, and wondered if he would turn into a corrupt officer who compromised the principles of his youth. No, that would never happen, he promised himself fiercely.

"Well, it's late," Tom said. "You can sleep on the couch if you like."

"Thank you," Benton said.

Annie brought him an extra blanket, and he slept deeply that night.

***

The summer passed. His hair grew out and curled almost to his shoulders, getting into his eyes when he worked. He tied it up with a piece of string to get it out of the way.

Benton was growing increasingly sick of living in the forest by night and cutting it down by day.

While felling a tree, he felt the saw cut swiftly down through the decades and centuries of slow growing. The chips and sawdust from the wood stuck to his sweaty skin, little pieces of history.

He saw the practical value of the lumber, he really did, and people needed wood. But the scale of it--it was such a contrast from the way they lived in the Territories, cutting only what they needed for firewood, or to mend the cabin. Here, trees that were bigger than two people could reach their arms around were casually felled, cut into manageable lengths, and transported away by trucks in a streamlined operation that was clearly driven by the demand for money, not by practical needs. And it was all done with such indifference--not even a doubt that they had the right to use everything in nature for their own ends.

He'd stay to get his wages for August, and then he'd leave, Benton promised himself. He spoke to Tom, who nodded in understanding, laconic as usual.

The day before he left, Tom brought him a package, wrapped up in a large plastic bag. He pulled out a guitar case from it, and said, "Annie wanted you to have this. She said she never plays it anyway."

"Oh! I...thank you. I mean, thank her for me." Benton felt a little awkward accepting the gift.

"I think the case should be pretty waterproof, but I brought the plastic just in case." Tom shook his hand. "All right, Benton, you take care. And give my best to Quinn."

"I will," Benton promised. "Thank you. For helping me."

Tom nodded at him, and started up his pick-up truck.

Benton took the guitar back to his camp and took it out. Hesitantly, he played a few arpeggios. The sounds were strangely comforting in the forest evening, and he sang a lullaby to himself, pausing once to retune the guitar. The dampness and change in temperature was probably not good for the instrument, but he was going home now, and hopefully it would not be damaged.

***

Benton packed his things and hitched a ride with one of trucks that carried the timber away.

He felt some relief at leaving the job behind, but he would miss the forest, he realized, even if it was not truly his home.

"Where are you going?" the driver asked him in heavily accented English. He was a blond man with a knife at his belt who smelled of tobacco. Benton couldn't place his accent.

"North," Benton told him simply.

"Ah. Where I am from, also. But in another country. I come from Inari Lake, in north of Finland. You want?" He offered Benton a piece of something brown.

"What is it?"

"Chewing tobacco." The man gestured toward his mouth, where his upper lip was distended by a piece of the brown stuff.

"No, thank you," Benton said, as politely as he could. But the man didn't seem offended, just put his hand back on the wheel. Where it definitely needed to be, in Benton's opinion--the man drove with a fine disregard for the state of the gravel road.

"How did you end up in Canada?" Benton asked, curious.

"Ah, long story. It's about a woman. Isn't it always?" He looked at Benton, grinning and showing his brown-stained teeth. Benton smiled back in understanding, like he was expected to, and the man launched into a long and complicated story that would have been worthy of a ballad. Benton wondered if it was true.

They reached a place where the highway branched off north and south. "Ah, I talk too much to be a real Finn, that's what they tell me. Anyway, good luck. I go south now. I let you off here?"

"Thank you kindly for the ride," Benton said. He opened the door and jumped off the high steps of the truck onto the dirt at the side of the road.

***

Benton was hungry.

He was almost used to it by now, that hollow feeling in his belly. He'd reached Whitehorse, and being in a town, he couldn't hunt or trap. He didn't want to spend his hard-earned money on food and lodgings--he was determined to leave a fair amount of it for his grandparents when he went to Depot. The truck stop was on the north edge of town, but he couldn't set off again without eating. His stomach made a noise, and he drank some water from his bottle to take the edge off.

Benton sat down against a tree on a strip of grass along a street, looking at the people walking by without seeing him. He imagined himself as he no doubt looked to them: scruffy, with dirty, worn clothes and nothing but a backpack and a guitar case. Idly, he took out his guitar and picked out a few slow minor chords, to suit his mood. His fingers were calloused and the strings hardly made a dent in his fingertips. The chords changed and settled and Benton started singing to himself, low and hesitant at first.

_There's a home by the wide Avonmore  
that will sweep to the broad open sea..._

The song was full of longing, for a girl, naturally, but all Benton heard was the wide river sweeping to the sea, and that was the longing that he sang. He picked out the final notes and then startled at the sound of scattered applause. A few people tossed coins into the open guitar case.

"Hey, sing something else?" a woman asked with a smile.

Benton smiled back in pure surprise and started on another song, this one faster.

People stopped, listened for a few songs and then drifted off again. Benton sang until he was hoarse and his fingers ached, and he had sung all the songs he could think of. Finally, he started on an old song his mother used to sing, a half-forgotten memory mingled with the smell of cinnamon and tea.

_Once our valleys were ringing  
With songs of our children singing  
But now sheep bleat till the evening  
And shielings lie empty and broken_

_Hush, hush, time to be sleeping  
Hush, hush, dreams come a-creeping  
Dreams of peace and of freedom  
So smile in your sleep, bonny baby..._

He trailed off and lifted his head to his audience. "I'm sorry, I've forgotten the rest."

"Hey, I know that one," said a young man a couple of years older than him, and began to sing the next verse.

_No use pleading or praying  
For gone, gone is all hope of staying  
Hush, hush, the anchor's a-weighing  
Don't cry in your sleep, bonny baby_

_Hush, hush, time to be sleeping..._

They finished together as the words came back to Benton, and then he put the guitar down and shook out his tired hands. The people walked on, but the man sat down beside him. He had his hair strangely tangled together in long strands, tied together in the neck. "That's such a great song, where did you learn it?"

"From my mother, when I was small. Thanks for helping me with the last part." Benton gathered up the money he had earned, which was really a lot more than he'd expected, and put it in his pouch.

"Hey, my pleasure. You should've been here at the Frostbite music festival this winter: you'd have fit right in. Want to go grab something to eat?"

Benton looked up, surprised. "Sure!"

"I'm Dave, by the way."

"Benton."

They shook hands, and Benton packed up his things.

"Are you just passing through?" Dave asked.

"Yes, I'm on my way north."

"There's a great diner over on the next street. Cheap, too." Dave jerked his thumb over his shoulder.

After the meal, Benton greedily licked the last bits of grease off his fingers and ignored his grandmother's voice in his head about table manners.

"Wow, you were really hungry, huh?" Dave said.

"Well, yes. I've been hitchhiking, and the hunting wasn't very good."

"Hunting?" Dave looked at him as if he was crazy, and then laughed. "You're kidding, right?" He didn't wait for a reply, though. "You got a place to sleep tonight?"

"Not exactly," Benton said, avoiding mention of his tent. Perhaps Dave would see that as strange too, and besides, he would have to walk out of the town to find a good place to camp.

"You could crash at my place, if you want," Dave offered.

"Oh! That's very kind of you, but I wouldn't want to inconvenience you."

"Hey, it's no trouble. Besides, I thought you could teach me that version of 'The Two Sisters' ballad that you sang."

"Sure, I'd be happy to do that."

Dave's apartment was a small place--just a room with minimal kitchen facilities and dirty dishes piled high in the sink.

"Sorry 'bout that." He waved his hand in the general direction of the sink, and Benton nodded and spread his bedroll at the opposite end of the room from Dave's mattress. There was a faint trace of some sweet smoke that Benton suspected was marijuana, but he didn't ask, not particularly wanting to know. Dave took down the guitar that was hanging on the wall, and they settled down to a few companionable hours of swapping songs with each other.

***

Benton woke early, not having slept particularly well. The floor was much harder than sleeping outdoors, and the air was closed in and stuffy. Dave seemed to be fast asleep, so he wrote him a note of thanks and slipped out the door.

At the truck stop, he approached the first driver he saw, as politely as he could. "Excuse me? Are you going north?"

He shook his head. "Sorry, son. Going south."

On the fifth try, he finally found someone going the right way. He was a bear of a man with a bushy black mustache, and when they'd swung out on the road he cranked the radio up high and sang along. There was a picture of a busty Dolly Parton dangling from the rear-view mirror. Benton didn't mind country music as a rule, but he gritted his teeth against the man's off-key singing. Well, beggars couldn't be choosers, after all. He took out his volume of Wittgenstein and attempted to concentrate.

That evening, he asked to be let off where he saw a creek cutting across the road. He breathed a sigh of relief at the departing dust cloud of the truck, and went down to see if he could catch himself some dinner in the creek. That night, he slept deeply.

The next few days passed in a blur of highway. It stretched before him endlessly, until he felt that the road would keep going until they fell off the edge of the earth into the Beaufort sea.

On the ferry at Tsiigehtchic, as the driver stood a few meters away on the deck smoking, he realized with a sudden jolt to his heart that he would be home soon. He bit his lip, watching the waters of the Arctic Red River flowing into the Mackenzie. He didn't feel guilty, not really. Then he admitted to himself, determined to be honest, that yes, actually he did. He'd sent that postcard to his grandparents to tell them he was fine, but he'd done nothing since then. His stomach twisted a little bit, wondering what they'd say.

The truck left Tsiigehtchic behind, heading ever farther north.

***

Benton asked the driver to let him off about a kilometer before they reached Inuvik. He wanted to wash off before he faced his grandparents. They had always set great store in cleanliness, and Benton felt uncomfortable in the grime and sweat of his journey. There was a bend in the Mackenzie River where it ran deep and green, and he stripped off his clothes and jumped in. The shock of the cold water rendered him wide-awake, his skin tingling with life.

Neither of his two shirts was particularly clean, and there was little he could do about it now; they wouldn't have time to dry even if he could wash them effectively. Benton chose the one he hadn't been wearing, and pulled it over his head quickly to deter the mosquitoes. He wrung the water out of his hair and removed the cord to run his fingers through it, working out the worst of the tangles. Perhaps he should cut it? No, he only had his small shaving mirror, and he'd only end up with an uneven haircut. He tied it up again.

All right. There was nothing further he could think of to delay himself. Benton took a deep breath, shouldered his pack, and walked into Inuvik.

It was just as he remembered, except that it seemed smaller. There was the dome of the church, and there was old Fulton, sitting with a bottle of whiskey on the steps of his trailer like always. Benton stopped by the general store to find out where his grandparents were.

"Mrs McIntyre?" She turned around, squinting at him and wiping her hands on her apron.

"Benton Fraser?" she said, incredulous. "Where have you been? Martha and George have been worried sick over you, you thoughtless boy."

He tried to reply, but she talked right through it. "And you're nothing but skin and bone! Haven't you been eating at all? Come along."

She chivvied him to the house behind the store, sitting him down at the table and serving up an enormous portion of casserole. He ate hungrily while she kept up a steady stream of talk. They had been worried about him? Really?

"Well, they're up Tuk way, there's a supply flight going up there this afternoon, and I dare say they'd let you ride along. You sure you don't want more?"

"I couldn't eat another bite. Thank you kindly, Mrs. McIntyre, for the food and the directions."

"You go straight to Tuk, now, Benton." He could see her reach for the telephone as he closed the door behind him.

***

Benton steeled himself to knock, but the door opened before he could work himself up to it, and he saw his grandmother's familiar face. "Benton! Thank god you're back. Matilda called and told me you were on your way."

Benton straightened. "I'm all right. I've been down in British Columbia, earning money for going to Depot."

Her eyes narrowed and her voice grew cold. "So your note said, yes. And what on Earth made you leave without saying goodbye?"

He swallowed. Now that he had to explain it, he found he couldn't. "I…"

"We've been taking care of you for all these years! And then you run away like a thief in the night! Did you think we wouldn't help you?"

A small, rebellious spark began to glow in him. God knew he was supposed to be grateful for all they had done for him; and he _was_ grateful, he really was. But he had made money on his own now, and all she did was scold him for it. He clenched his jaws and almost raised his voice back, but habit made him lower his head instead. "I'm sorry."

"I should think so. Are you hungry?" He was--it felt like he had eaten that casserole yesterday.

Dinner was a little awkward. Benton ate hungrily, but they were all three of them fairly silent. Afterwards, Benton warmed a pail of water and went around the back to wash out his clothes, dirty from travelling. While he was wringing out the flannel shirts, his grandfather came up to him.

"You know, Martha ran away from home herself once."

"She did? Really?" Benton hadn't known that, and he was intensely curious to find out more.

"Yes. And I don't think she ever thought that someone would run away from her."

Benton looked down, ashamed of himself again. "Why did she run away?"

"That's her story to tell, if she wants to tell it."

He worked up the courage to ask her about it later that evening. Benton had swept all the floors and was now washing the dishes, in some half-conscious attempt to atone, and she was cooking cloudberry jam beside him in the kitchen.

"Grandfather said that you ran away from home once," he said quickly, before he could think better of it.

She glanced at him sharply. "He said that, did he?"

"Yes."

"Well, all right." She measured up sugar from the tin on the shelf and poured it into the pot, and then began to speak. "My father wanted to marry me off to the nearest farm boy. And I suppose I wasn't very interested in that--I wanted more from life than to have babies and work on a farm. So I ran away to Toronto to study. My schoolteacher helped me."

Benton listened, rapt with interest. "Did you ever go back?"

"No, I didn't. And I don't think my father would have wanted me back. I was a disgrace to him." She smiled ruefully. "At least you came back."

"I..." Benton swallowed. "I really am sorry for not telling you. It was just that I knew you didn't approve of me going to Depot, and I thought you wouldn't approve of me going off on my own either, and...I'm sorry." His apology was sincere this time.

"I suppose I still don't think the RCMP is the best thing for you." She sighed. "But perhaps we should have made it clearer that we respect your choice."

Benton felt relieved, as if the world was back to the way it ought to be.

 

***

Rumor was faster than the wind in Tuk, and the next morning Eric knocked on his window. Benton opened it and Eric leaned on the windowsill.

"Hi, white boy." The teasing was back in his voice.

"You're in Tuk?" Benton said stupidly.

"Helping my uncle with the fishing. How have you been?" Eric's face was a darker brown now, the way it got in the summer, and his teeth flashed white when he smiled.

"I cut down trees until I grew sick of it. I earned the money I need, though."

Eric nodded.

Benton wanted to touch him, but he didn't know--they hadn't promised anything, after all. And Eric looked unreadable, the way he sometimes did.

"Want to go down to the sea?" Eric asked. "You look like you could use a swim."

"Yes. Let me just get soap and a towel." Benton rummaged around, then climbed out the window.

There was no shortage of water around Tuktoyaktuk. The sea, the river delta, it all merged together into a maze of waterways, and where there was no river, there were the shallow ponds and wetlands of the tundra. They walked along the shore until they couldn't see the town anymore, then stripped and ran into the sea, murky with sediments from the river. Even in August, the cold stole Benton's breath, and he washed down quickly, goosebumps rising on his skin.

The sun was warm, though, and the mosquitoes were almost gone this late in the summer, so they sprawled naked next to an old upside-down rowboat that sheltered them from the wind. The gray weathered boards looked almost like the ribcage of some great animal. Benton let his hand touch Eric's, and felt his fingers tighten around his.

"I missed you, you know," Eric said.

"I missed you, too." Benton didn't say that he was going to be leaving again soon, because Eric already knew that, and talking about it wasn't going to change anything. It was just the way it was.

"Mmm." Eric turned on his side, tugging lightly on Benton's hair. "I like it long."

"Well, I just forgot to cut it," he said, shrugging.

Eric's smile broadened. "Gives me something to hold on to," he murmured, and he grabbed a handful of Benton's hair and leaned forward.

Benton made a startled sound into his mouth and then kissed him back with enthusiasm until they were both out of breath.

"You're so thin," Eric said, running his hand along Benton's ribs.

"You're not exactly the first one to say so. It's not like I had a lot of money to spare. Or much time for hunting--I was working," he said, somewhat defensively.

"I can tell." Eric squeezed Benton's arm appreciatively.

Benton felt his face heating, and buried it in Eric's shoulder. His skin smelled of sun and salt, and he licked it, tasting the dried seawater.

He hadn't realized how much he had missed this. Not just the pleasure that filled him when Eric lowered his head and put his mouth on him, but the simple touch of skin to skin: it felt as if life and warmth flowed into him from Eric's hands. Benton let his fingers undo the strip of leather that held Eric's hair together and spread it out over his lap, strands of black hair catching slightly on his callused hands.

He didn't last long, and with a low cry, he came in Eric's mouth, closing his eyes and seeing the sun shine red through his eyelids.

Later, they both lay half-asleep, drowsy with sexual release. Benton curled around Eric, soaking in the feeling of a warm naked body lying full length against his own. This wasn't something they talked much about. It just was, like the river flowing into the sea and the gulls crying overhead.

***

In late September, his father unexpectedly appeared at the door.

"Just popping by for a quick visit," he said, hanging his Stetson on a hook by the door.

"Hi, dad," Benton said. He supposed that his father must know by now, but somehow that did not make it any easier to bring the subject up.

"Well, son," he said as he was taking his coat off. "I heard you'll be going to Depot soon,"

"Yes, I will," Benton replied.

"Good luck, then. I'm sure you'll do well." He nodded, as if it were a settled matter, then looked around the kitchen. "Is your grandmother around?"

"She's around the back," Benton said automatically, and his father left to find her.

Benton felt off balance, as if he had been bracing himself for something, only to have it give way without resistance. He didn't know what he'd expected, really--but some kind of reaction other than whatever he had gotten, he supposed.

Well. It wasn't as if he was doing this for his father's sake.

***

His grandparents insisted that he fly, so that he didn't arrive in Regina dirty from living off the land, and his grandmother cut his hair short again. He packed his things and left most of the money he'd earned over the summer in an envelope on his bed, along with a note--he'd get food and board at Depot, and he didn't need money for much else, after all. Perhaps he should've just given them the money, but he felt a little awkward about it. He knew how proud his grandmother was--she'd never want to rely on charity. She'd happily take it for the library, yes, but not for herself. Not that this was charity, because they were family, but still.

To his surprise, his grandmother hugged him briefly before he got on the plane. He hugged back awkwardly, having to bend down slightly to put his arms around her.

"Promise you'll write to us," she said, and Benton promised that he would.

His grandfather clapped him on the back and looked him in the eyes. "Good luck, Benton. Be sure to tell us if you need help."

"I will." He got on the plane, strapping himself into the seat and looking out through the window. His grandparents seemed so small, standing there on the tarmac of the airport.

Benton watched Inuvik disappear below him, the buildings shrinking into the vastness of the landscape around them. He bit his lip. He would not cry--he was going where he wanted to go. He was.

He and Eric had said their goodbyes last night. Eric had pressed his lips and nose against Benton's cheek in a _kunik_, intimate but not sexual, then said, "Goodbye, Mountie."

Benton had breathed in the smell of Eric's sun-warmed skin. "I'm not a Mountie yet."

"No, but you will be." There had been something almost sad in his voice, as if he were withdrawing some part of himself.

Benton had felt a pang, like something lodging painfully in his chest, and had suddenly wanted more than anything to stay at home. _I didn't know. I didn't know that I would lose this._

But of course, he _had_ known. After Depot, he would be stationed wherever the RCMP saw fit to send him. There was no guarantee that he could go back to Inuvik. And even if he could...

He had hugged Eric to him almost roughly, his throat closing up with unshed tears.

Inuvik was barely visible now, just a small blur by the meandering river. Benton resolutely turned his head to look forward instead.

**Author's Note:**

> Originally, this was meant to be the story of Benton at Depot, but it kind of grew, so the rest is postponed to a sequel.
> 
> I read quite a lot of material about the natural history of western Canada, most of which didn't make it into the story. I am grateful to the arboretum in the Botanical Gardens in my home town, where I could see the trees that grow on the coast of BC. Western hemlocks really are lovely trees. &amp;hearts
> 
> I wanted to include something of the political conflicts going on in the NWT at that time, but I don't know if I succeeded. And I hope I didn't get the Inuit and Tsimshian too much wrong. If anyone has corrections or reading tips about any of these things, I'd be grateful. (And while I'm talking about ethnic groups, I apologize for my stereotypical knife-wearing Finn with chewing tobacco. *g*)
> 
> Maybe it would've been more realistic to have mechanized logging, using harvesters and forwarders. But I didn't go with this, because I liked writing it the manual way. Also, thanks to my boyfriend, who told me at length about chainsaws.
> 
> Primroseburrows saved me from contradicting canon: Eric is Tsimshian, not Inuit as I'd thought. (Obviously I didn't watch "Mask" closely enough.) This was a problem for me, because I'd already written most of the story, and this was a big enough change that it felt like the whole story would have to be rewritten to accommodate it (the Tsimshian live quite far from where Fraser grew up). So I solved it by having Eric be half Inuit, half Tsimshian. If this is AU, so be it.
> 
> I cannot figure the geography of canon. I mean, CotW has huge mountains, but they can't be in the Mackenzie delta, where Fraser grew up according to canon, because that area is not that mountainous. In CotW, they talk about a place called Franklin Bay, but when I google that, the only thing I find is a Lady Franklin Bay, up really far north, close to Greenland, and that can't be right, can it? So anyway, I had Fraser be fascinated by seeing mountains for the first time, because I don't think he saw much of that where he grew up. Although of course, he could have lived somewhere else with Caroline...
> 
> Another thing is how much forest he'd have seen growing up. In the episode "Easy Money", we see young Fraser learning to track in a forest with Quinn, but that forest is completely unrealistic for the northern NWT--those species of broadleaved trees just don't grow there. I think they couldn't be bothered going up north just to film that bit. Around Inuvik, you get mostly rolling hills and narrow spruce trees (according to a biologist I know who's been there). Tuktoyaktuk, OTOH, is out on the flat tundra and has no trees at all.
> 
> Oh, and the [big green lichen](http://www.mcelroy.ca/bushlog/images/10a-4329.jpg) in the forest is _Lobaria pulmonaria_. It likes moist climates, and we've got it on the west coast of Sweden as well.


End file.
